Misread
by Zhar
Summary: Centuries ago, the life of a young Blade leader came to a grinding halt when his body was found in the depths of the rebel group's base, his emblematic knife missing. Theories surrounding his death and the whereabouts of his knife circulated, the answer never to be discovered. That is until Lance, an intern at the Blade History Museum, sees his ghost while doing his daily rounds.


**A/N: Written for the Klance Reverse Bang 2018. Art by f fitrihani. Beta'd by Blitzdrake.**

 **Thank you to everyone who supported me as I wrote this! I couldn't do it without you.**

* * *

Lance ran a hand through his unruly hair, cursing his alarm for not going off as he began his shift. He hadn't even grabbed lunch, only having the time to grab his least wrinkled clothes and do a cursory comb-through of his hair, before snatching his wallet and flying out the door, desperate to make it to work on time.

Luckily for him, a security guard was opening the door as he arrived and he slipped in past them, thankful that he wouldn't have to wait for someone else to open the door. In the end, he made it with only a few minutes to spare. No time to stop by his locker and drop off his wallet, but he could live until lunch.

Energized by his rushed morning, Lance began his rounds. He preferred walking through the museum before hours rather than after: there was a military sacredness to the museum's quiet, as if its empty quarters still beat with the hearts of a thousand Marmora soldiers. To let in a stampede of tourists was to ruin that solemn undercurrent flowing through the space.

Nowhere was that sentiment stronger than in the Hall of Leaders. Lance walked through the narrow hallway nearly every day with a lump in his throat, taking in the countless portraits of rebel leaders that lined its walls. Ten thousand years of leadership, of lives and comradeship, all reduced to a small group of images. And that was to say nothing of the memorial slab in the rear of the museum, its projection of names far too large to fit on the stone itself. How many of them had been mourned, Lance wondered. How many siblings, friends, and lovers had been left behind? It made him teary just thinking about it.

Lance made his way through the hall, nodding respectfully to some of the more notable Marmora leaders, wincing as the action caused pain to shoot up his neck. He'd woken up with it—probably slept on it wrong, he figured. If he were anywhere else, he would have been more careful of the soreness. But here, he felt obligated to show respect. It was his way of honoring their memory, even hundreds of years later, acknowledging them without making a spectacle.

Still, not all of them were blessed with that gift of forbearance. One portrait in particular was always the subject of gawking and murmured conspiracies, always under the scrutiny of amateur sleuths trying to uncover its mysteries. The museum's owner never did anything to stop it—the bustle around that portrait was one of their main sources of revenue, what kept people interested in the war with the Galra Empire hundreds of years after the fact, even after most of those involved in it had passed away—though the owner warned his interns to caution the visitors about getting too close, about digging for too much information. Information that even the museum didn't have.

The hall fed into a larger room that had once been the control room for the Blade base. The signs of the old base were more easily noticed here, especially at the stairs: they'd been slapped haphazardly over what had once been a dual ramp down to the main control center. Small gaps in the metal between the steps, leaking a faint purple light that had never been properly rewired. They only remained aglow simply because nobody alive knew which switch turned them off.

Still, it wasn't like the museum's patrons ever saw it. The only person allowed up there without express permission or invitation was the museum head, and that was rarely offered. Lance had been called up there only once, for his interview. After he started, he had learned quickly that walking up the staircase without such an invitation was an unspoken _no_ among the museum staff, though there was no official reason offered as to why the museum head kept it off limits.

The last few portraits from the hall hung in this room. Some time ago, the head explained, the volume of traffic coming in for the portrait required them to knock down one of the walls that concealed the control room, allowing the crowd to filter into a separate area to see the portrait. This separation gave other visitors who came for the rest of the portraits less distraction from the crowd drawn to the museum's most infamous piece.. Still, it had only been partially successful: the final room was always packed out with people, leaving almost no room to move around. Tramplings weren't unheard of in the museum's record.

Lance stared at the portrait in question. The leader featured in it hadn't been much older than Lance when he died. Lance had committed the facts of the leader's career to memory long ago: he'd been found deep in the Marmoran base in a storage closet, his body laying across the floor. The door was locked from the outside. There were bruises present on his neck, but the only evidence of a struggle was found in the bits of skin and blood under his fingernails, all of it his. No biological material was found on the outside of his suit. An autopsy confirmed the cause of death to be asphyxiation via strangulation.

There was one other peculiar thing about the body. One thing that caught everyone's attention.

His blade was missing.

The galaxy soon bubbled over with rumors enough to fill three lifetimes. Many concluded that his death had been due to an internal disagreement within the Blade, a disagreement so secretive they refused to speak of it after. He had been the youngest ever to lead and there were countless generals with more experience who could have taken up the mantle. Some theorized that his death had been the result of internal espionage, a Galra spy who'd infiltrated the Blade's ranks with the intention to make swift work of their leader. Still, others believed it to be the revenge of a scorned lover or friend, that the young leader in question wasn't quite as innocent as his portrait made him seen. Conspiracy theorists began to pop up all over; the Blade couldn't visit a planet without being accosted by groups of theorists desperate for clues, eager to extract whatever scraps of information they could from the secretive organization. Message pods detailing theories, conclusions, and claims of truth were sent to the stars, landing in various corners of the universe. None of the information contained in them was ever confirmed to be truth; most of it was simply pure fantasy, the deluded wish fulfillment of glory-seeking enthusiasts who wanted nothing more than to be _right_.

Lance looked up at the portrait. His build was smaller than most of the other Galra, a consequence of him being part human like Lance. He had been an anomaly of sorts: at the time of his rule, alien life had only recently made contact with Earth. For him to exist implied that the Galra, or at least the Blade, had been in contact with humans earlier than any official records stated. The only features that hinted at his Galra lineage were his eyes, the irises of which shone with a brilliant violet hue. Almost everything about him was undeniably human; his thick black hair, his facial structure, his name—

Keith. Lance repeated it to himself as he ran his finger along the nameplate. His name had been Keith: a young man not much older than Lance, raised among the flames of a war that had burned for far too long. Flames that burned through the known worlds of the universe and made no judgment about who or what they consumed, whether they incinerated or stung, melted or suffocated. The war couldn't have ended without Keith's contributions, Lance knew that. But if the blaze had been quelled long before, then perhaps he could have lived a longer life. Perhaps someone wouldn't have wanted him dead.

Perhaps, then, he wouldn't have had to go through _that_.

Lance placed a hand against his throat, gripping it gently. He'd almost drowned once, back when he was five. His siblings hadn't realized how bad the undertow was until they were out there, until he was ripped from their arms and dragged under. The sun pierced through the water and he tried reaching for it, but he wasn't strong enough to battle the current, and sunk further and further beneath the waves. Muffled screams made their way to his ears, but he couldn't reach them, not as the water rushed into his lungs.

Lance couldn't even begin to imagine what it was like to be locked in a tiny room, left to suffocate as his motor skills slowly left him, as his mind became more and more delirious. His chest was on fire at the thought.

He took a breath—

 _Tap._

—and froze.

It came from the staircase. A delicate sound, one that Lance could only hear because the room was so silent.

Lance turned his neck slowly, stretching it until his chin floated over his shoulder and his eyes had turned so far to the side that his sockets ached. His heart pounded in his chest—he wasn't alone. A shadowed form was watching from the the stairs. Who could be here so early? He cursed at himself for not being more diligent with his checks the night before. What if they were hiding out all night, waiting for him to appear? One of their patrons _did_ always seem to materialize wherever Lance was. Or was it some sort of serial killer lying in wait for Lance to be alone? Bile rose in his throat at the thought of it, at the thought of someone backing him into a corner where he couldn't scream for help.

Still, he had to say something.

"Sorry, you can't be here, the museum isn't open yet."

The figure didn't answer. He could see their shoes out of the corner of his eyes, a two-toned set with rounded toes. They were a deep purple, almost black, and the soles were a light gray. A matching band ran over the instep. They looked familiar, somehow, though Lance couldn't place why. Waves of warmth rushed over his chest at the vague recognition, swirling around him in clawed currents that grasped at him, drawing him closer and closer to the figure.

His own footsteps sounded through the hall, plodding and heavy. Detached, as if he was listening to someone else walk. Logically, he was screaming. _Stop moving. Don't get too close. You don't know why they're here. They could be anyone. They could do anything to you. You're not a security guard. You can't do this. You've never been trained for it._

But inside. Inside, he couldn't help but feel a shaky confidence that he wasn't actually in any danger at all, far from it. Just because of a vague stir of memory brought on by the sight of those shoes. The figure didn't move. He held his breath as he ascended the stairs, closing in on the truth. And when the truth had come, he gasped.

Those shoes were connected to a larger suit that ran taut against skin. A thick piece of armor, carved with jagged symbols, covered the figure's chest. Light spilled from the breastplate, filling the space between them with a purple glow. The suit ended high at the junction between head and neck, covering the skin with tight precision, and a hood sat atop his bony shoulders. Black hair floated above them, swimming along the fabric of the hood in thick crests. And his eyes—a churning violet, a color that Lance had only seen on one other person.

Lance glanced down the staircase at the portrait, then back to the person in front of him, his jaw going slack as he processed just _who_ he was seeing.

"I. You. You're—"

He couldn't speak. It was like his tongue had twisted itself into a knot, trapping his words in a tight tangle before they reached his lips. _Keith_ , he wanted to say. Keith, the Blade leader who had died mysteriously all those years ago. He tried to pull logic out of the situation, but he couldn't. All he could boil it down to was that at some point, he'd acquired the ability to see ghosts. He could wrap his head around that, at the very least. What he couldn't wrap his head around was the fact that the very first ghost he'd see was Keith. _Keith._

The very Keith that then interrupted his thoughts.

"You—" He gasped mid-sentence, his voice raspy and subdued, as if he wasn't used to using it. "You can _see_ me?"

Lance nodded, the knot in his tongue still too big to unravel. Keith's eyes blew open. He drew in a shaky breath, grasped the railing tightly and moved closer to Lance. His feet dragged down the intervening steps with hard, deliberate thunks. The stairs trembled beneath them, but Keith didn't flinch as he walked, only stopping once there was a single step between them, his nose only a few inches above Lance's.

"Really?"

"Yeah," Lance said.

All he could do was stare at Lance, at this other boy who could _see him_ , as if he were the only thing keeping him steady.

* * *

They'd settled in front of Keith's portrait for their conversation. Keith had his back to the picture—it was weird looking at his face while they were talking, he'd explained, before dropping down. Lance sat on the floor with his legs crossed, his hands cupping his feet for support as he leaned forward, listening to Keith speak about his life.

"So you've been here since...?"

"Almost. I didn't wake up right after I died."

"How long after?"

Keith shrugged. Really, it was more of a half-shrug—he sat oddly, with one leg tucked under him and the other splayed straight out. The position didn't allow for a lot of movement.

"A few hours, maybe? I'm not sure, but it couldn't have been long."

"Why do you think that?"

Lance pressed an elbow into one of his legs and rested his chin in his hand.

"I saw them take my body out."

He said it without emotion, as if he were reading off a string of facts in a history textbook. Internally, Keith felt anything but apathetic, a shiver wracking his spine as the memory resurfaced. He saw flashes, first: how pale his face had been, his eyes bulging, frozen; the cloth that they'd solemnly tugged over his face, the screams that tore from his throat as he tried to get their attention.

Lance must have sensed how he was feeling. He tried to think of something consoling to say, but Keith interrupted before he could finish.

"It's—it's okay. I've had a long time to get used to remembering it." A long time, but not long enough.

"Did you wake up next to it- I mean, to your body?"

"No. I woke up in my room, far away from where they found me."

"That's—"

"Weird. I know."

"The reports said that your body hadn't been moved."

"It hadn't. They found me laying down on my back. All the blood in my body pooled on that side, too. Besides, you know the size of this place." He waved a hand in the air, motioning to the space around them. "It would have been hard to get through here with a corpse in your arms. You would have run into someone eventually. So no, I wasn't moved. That much I know for sure."

"That much?"

"The rest of it's fuzzy. I remember heading down the hallway I was found near for something. I can't remember what."

Lance went over some of the facts he knew of the circumstances surrounding Keith's death, searching for any precursor to Keith's memory loss. At the time of his death, the Blade had been hosting a gathering—nothing overly fancy, just a small diplomatic event with the Paladins. Though the Blade was normally a secretive group, Keith had chosen to make an exception. This annoyed some of the Blades, but Lance didn't think that something as simple as that would drive any of them to kill Keith. He'd read the reports; for the many doubts they'd expressed over Keith's leadership abilities, the Blades still held a certain level of reverence for him.

Still, his memory loss was concerning. He had to dig further.

"Do you think someone gave you something?"

Keith shook his head.

"It would have shown up in a test." So much for that.

"Do you have any idea what it could have been?"

He shrugged.

"It could be some weird effect of being a ghost. Maybe some of your memory is lost in the transition. I have one idea, though."

"What is it?"

"Someone choked me. So maybe the oxygen loss messed up my memory."

Keith closed his eyes and scrunched his forehead, trying to recall anything else, but even the earlier parts of that day were hazy, and had been since he'd opened his eyes. He'd spent months after listening to the other Blade members talk, trying to piece his movements back together, but they were too misshapen, carved from subjective truth and hearsay, cursed never to fit together neatly. In the end, he'd gained little insight as to the day's events.

"That makes sense. I think."

"When you have nothing else to think about, you try to make it make sense."

"So what else do you do, then?"

"Huh?"

"When you're not thinking about the circumstances surrounding your death, I mean." Lance's eyes widened. "Can you, like, you know..."

Keith raised an eyebrow—

"Fly? Make things float? Do cool ghost stuff?"

—and groaned, burying his face in his hands.

"What?"

"I walked _down a flight of stairs_ to meet you." Certainly not the kind of flight Lance was thinking of.

"That doesn't mean anything. How do I know you don't just walk around sometimes to remember what it feels like? That sounds like something a ghost haunting a place would do. Sentiment and all that."

"First of all, no, I can't fly, and second, I'm not haunting the base." He chewed on his lip and looked away from Lance, crossing his arms. "At least, I don't think I am. Hard to do that when nobody sees you."

"Fair," Lance said as he stood up, though it was less a concession and more of a probe. Skepticism clung to the phrase, sending the hairs of Keith's neck up. He felt like he was beneath a sweltering spotlight, ready for his responses to be catalogued. Judged. Just like he did when patrons swarmed beneath his portrait, reaching out past the velvet rope to point out a wrinkle, a stain, a scratch, weaving them into their interpretations. To them, Keith wasn't a person who had had his life ripped away from him without reason—to them, Keith was an object, his death a puzzle to be riddled out.

Lance was no different, in that sense.

"Lance."

"How do you know my name?"

Keith pointed to a spot on his chest and frowned. Lance pressed a hand to the same area, smoothing it over the fabric, searching for what he was referring to. And then it dawned on him.

"Your name tag. You're not wearing it today."

"Ah, shit. My supervisor's going to kill me."

His name tag was missing. Between the pounding headache he woke up with and the fact that he'd overslept, he'd forgotten to grab it. In fact, he wasn't even sure he saw it that morning—the shelf he normally left it on was empty.

"Do you have another?"

"I think there might be a spare in my locker."

* * *

The employee break room was buried two floors beneath the center of the museum. Its entrance was behind the main information desk, which was located in the rear of the lobby. At some point in the museum's history, a plate of glass had been placed over the original flooring to preserve the Marmoran seal in the lobby's center, raising the room an inch. Some of the pickier visitors complained about this, saying that the floor didn't match up with the base of the columns along the walls. Lance forced a grin onto his face in response, filed it in the back of his mind under "Things to Rant About to My Coworkers Later," and pretend to take notes.

A coworker stood at the desk preparing pamphlets for the day's operations. He was jealous of them, in a way: on his next shift, he'd be the one running the front desk—during their next gala, of all things. As much as he didn't mind interacting with their guests, galas were a completely different story; not only would they get a huge influx of people in a relatively short period of time, but they would also be confined to a relatively small area and, unlike normal days, would have access to a variety of alcoholic drinks. To say Lance wasn't looking forward to it was an understatement.

Lance slipped in behind his coworker, uttering a greeting as he made his way to the employee door, eyeing the scanner drilled into the wall beside it. A small bulb built into the mechanism shone red. Lance slipped his wallet out of his pocket, removed his museum ID, and brandished it in front of the device, but the light didn't change.

"That's weird. My ID isn't working."

"Ask a security guard?"

"I can, they'll be pretty pissed at me dragging them down here just for a spare, though." Lance frowned and rubbed his temple. "Wait, I have an idea."

"What?"

"Can you pass through the door?"

Keith was ready to slam his head on the door. Hadn't they just had a conversation about this a moment ago? He glared at Lance.

"No."

"So what can—"

"Nothing."

"Wait, really?"

"Yeah. I can't even go through that door unless someone else opens it."

"Is it like that with every door?"

"Only the locked ones."

"What?"

"I'll show you."

Keith spun around and walked away from Lance, heading straight for the east wing. Lance ran after him, hoping his coworker wouldn't pull him aside for a lecture about running around in the museum. He caught up to Keith in the adjacent hallway, the ghost feeling along the wall for a long, thin opening: a separation marking the hidden janitor's closet. Lance watched as Keith's fingertips dipped into the crevice between door and wall, his body remaining solid. Then, he dragged his fingers down to the door handle, grasped it, and tugged hard.

The door didn't budge.

Which would make sense. There were several of them scattered throughout the facility and they remained locked at all times. Only the janitors had the keys to them—though supposedly, that hadn't always been the case. They had to start restricting access to the closets after a handful of employees were found ducking their shifts in there.

Keith then went to the coat check door on the other side of the hallway. This one was kept unlocked at night; no money was stored in there and any forgotten garments, no matter how valuable, were placed in a separate storage room. Unlike the last door, this knob moved as Keith twisted his arm. He gave it a small push. The door flew open, revealing rows of coat hangers.

"See?"

"Interesting. Can you lock it?"

Keith shook his head and reached for the slide lock on the door. Though the lock was old, it was kept in relatively good shape: Lance had been asked numerous times to slide it closed for his shorter coworkers and each time, it slid smoothly. But when Keith tried, it wouldn't move from its holder, as if it were glued in place.

"See?"

"So you're at the mercy of whatever we decide to keep open for you?"

"Basically. I can slip in behind people, but I have to make sure I follow them out. Otherwise, I'm stuck."

"Hm. I think Pidge is back from her trip today. She might be able to lend me her card in the meantime."

"She's the one with the brown, flippy hair, right?"

"The one and only," Lance said. "She should be working in the north wing today, over in the Center for Education."

* * *

Pidge was exactly where Lance predicted. While she occasionally covered the floor, her internship was primarily focused on optimizing the museum's various cataloging systems. As such, her area of assignment changed on a daily basis. Some sectors required more work than others, causing her to wander through those sectors to find and address particular catalogues. The Center for Education, was one of the first she worked on. At this point, there was little left to do except remain on standby for troubleshooting, which meant she'd be sitting at a desk reviewing existing code for hours on end.

He found her sitting in the corner of the library, stationed on top of a platform a few steps above the other workstations. Keith took a seat on top of one of these desks, leaning back against one of the cubicle walls and crossing his ankles. Lance narrowed his eyes and motioned for Keith to not put his feet on the desk, but Keith shrugged.

"No one can see me," he reminded Lance.

"Doesn't mean you can just prop your feet up on the table."

Keith shrugged. Lance rolled his eyes. He'd deal with Keith later; he had a friend to greet.

Pidge had already scheduled a trip before being offered the internship and the museum head was gracious enough to grant her the time off. For weeks,she couldn't stop talking about it—she and her brother were going to visit the ruins of Naxzela and explore some of the old tech that still resided there. Obtaining the clearance to go there was rare: even military members weren't usually allowed there, let alone civilians. When Lance asked her how she got access, Pidge winked, but didn't give him the details.

"Pidge!" Lance waved. "How was your vacation?"

She didn't respond. Lance grunted, rounded the top of the stairs and walked to the front of the desk. In front of Pidge was a sheet of paper. The names of several cataloging modules were scribbled down on it, each accompanied by a series of bullet points.

"Pidge?"

He leaned over the desk, putting his face almost nose-to-nose with hers. She blinked and looked up, her brown eyes boring straight into Lance, but said nothing before returning her attention to the sheet of paper in front of her. Frowning, he walked back over to Keith.

"Sometimes she likes to mess with me like this," he whispered. "We do this thing where we try to see how long we can go without reacting to each other. It's a whole game of who can ignore the other best, with rules about what you can and can't do and scoring to see who lasted the longest. We get very competitive."

"What's the point of that?"

"There isn't, really. It's just fun."

"What?"

"What do you mean, what?"

Keith buried his chin in his hand and squinted.

"Shiro mentioned that word once or twice, but I didn't really get it."

"What word?"

"Fun."

"Wait, you don't know what fun is?"

Keith shook his head.

"Shiro explained it to me, but I didn't really get it."

Shiro. He'd been one of the Paladins that saved the universe from Galra rule. It made sense that Keith would have met him. He wondered if they were close, but was more interested in the explanation of how Keith didn't understand fun..

"I get that some stuff makes you happy and you keep doing it because of that, but there has to be an explanation for why it makes you happy," Keith continued. "There's a reason behind everything."

"Not always. Sometimes you just let things play out without an explanation."

"That doesn't make any sense. There has to be one."

"Sometimes there just isn't."

"But—"

Lance held a hand in front of Keith's face, cutting him off.

"Focus, we have a Pidge to startle."

" _You_ have a Pidge to startle. I can't communicate with her at all."

"What?"

"Ghosts can't communicate with the living."

"Not even like, a ghostly note or something?"

"Nope. Besides, you can't startle her. She knows you're here."

Lance rolled his eyes.

"You're way too caught up in the details, man."

"I'm just laying out the facts."

"Ah—nope. Not right now, you aren't."

With that, Lance spun around, a new wave of determination pulsing across his chest as he marched over to his friend. Keith stood at a distance, his forehead creased from the frustration of their conversation as he listened to Lance's footsteps, hectic and jagged as they bounced off the museum's walls.

Lance buried his chin in his hand, eyes narrowed as his mind dabbled over the puzzle pieces laid out in front of him.

There was something special about the desk, he concluded. Something about its physicality that distracted Pidge just enough for her to keep a steady face. Was it the fact that it was just another object for her to center herself on, whether she had a piece of paper in front of her or not—was its clearly-defined edges that much easier to process than Lance's antics? Was that what gave her the edge?

If that was the case, he'd just have to get rid of the desk. He could move it: there were a couple of them around the museum that he'd done just that for. Usually at the request of the museum head.

Lance sidled up next to Pidge and stretched his arms out, interlocking his fingers and cracking his knuckles. He had to be adequately prepared before he moved such a heavy object and yeah, he'd stretched his legs a little that morning, but nothing extensive. Maybe he was being a little too careful, but he couldn't really risk getting injured on this, not when he was due to return home next week for his mother's birthday celebration. He was looking forward to it: he hadn't had any of her cooking in a while, and the thought of walking into her kitchen, filled with the savory scent of whatever spices she was using that night was enough to send him salivating.

Focus, Lance, he reminded himself. He gave each of his shoulders a roll, stretching out the last of his muscles, and planted his hands on the edge of the desk. Pidge continued writing. Lance peeked at her work: she'd filled almost the entire page with words, scrawled in a language discernible only by her. His eyes dropped; he'd really hate to ruin whatever it was she was working on.

He could warn her. Keith wasn't wrong: she _had_ to know he was there. A signal would help him avoid incurring her wrath should he completely ruin her project, even if it put him at a disadvantage. His mind made up, he sighed and glanced at her.

"Pidge, I'm going to move the table. I'm not kidding. Don't blame me if your paper gets wrecked."

When she didn't respond, braced his hands against the edge of the desk, bent over slightly, and pushed with all the strength he could summon. Which, if he was being honest, wasn't a lot, but it was enough to move the desk.

Normally.

The piece of furniture hadn't budged. Gritting his teeth, Lance pushed harder, his grip driving the color from his knuckles. After what seemed like an eternity, Lance dropped his arms and flopped onto the desk face-first.

"Did you seriously sit at the one desk they fastened to the floor?"

Pidge said nothing. He had to admit it, he was impressed. Her straight face could fend off an army on a good day, but this? This was a completely different level of accomplishment for her.

He glanced at Keith. The other's focus seemed to be elsewhere, his expression having changed into something unreadable. His eyes flipped back and forth between Lance and Pidge, studying the pair intently. Just what it was he was focused on, Lance couldn't say.

Lance turned back to Pidge and walked around the corner of the desk, trailing his fingers along the surface. Once he reached her right side, he spun around and placed a hand on his head, flopping down with enough flair to make a movie star jealous. His landing was impeccable: only an inch or so away from her hand, close enough that he could sense her warmth near his scalp. A solid ten out of ten. Maybe an eleven. She didn't flinch. Lance frowned and stood up.

"Okay, Pidge. Game's over. Can we talk now?"

She put the pen down. Lance let out a sigh of relief.

"Finally! I think this one's a new re—mmph!"

He practically swallowed a mouthful of Pidge's hair as she twisted to open one of the desk drawers. She gave it a hard tug, but it wouldn't move. Huh. Sounded like a problem Lance had recently.

"Fuck," she mumbled. Grunting, she let go of the metal, giving her fingers a momentary rest before trying again. This time, the drawer popped open, sending her flying backward. Which also meant straight into Lance's face. His nose, to be more specific.

He howled and stumbled back. Warmth snaked its way out of his nostrils. He slid a finger beneath them and held it up in front of him: the appendage had gained a thin line of red, just as he'd feared. Nowhere near as bad as he thought it would be, granted, but still what he was hoping to avoid. Keith, worried, ran over to him.

"You okay?"

Lance didn't answer him, his focus on someone else entirely: Pidge. She hadn't apologized. Something was wrong. Even if she was occasionally impatient or distant with him, even in the midst of their I'm-ignoring-you-game, she'd never just leave him to fend for himself after an accident. Had their last game been this strict? Had he pissed her off sometime in recent memory? He mined his brain for answers, but couldn't find any. His mouth went dry.

"Wait—" Keith said. There was a quietness to his voice, a waver that Lance couldn't pin an emotion to and one that he didn't exactly care to figure out in that moment. He reached out and grabbed Lance's shoulder, shaking it.

"Not now." He shrugged the hand off.

"Lance, listen—"

"Maybe I could try writing something down?"

"Wait!"

"It's the only thing I haven't tried."

"Don't—"

Lance grabbed a pen from the holder on Pidge's desk and leaned over her. Running his thumb over the clicker, he tapped it a couple of times, testing it out before pushing the apparatus for good. He pressed the side of his hand against the paper, curled his wrist, and ran the pen across it.

No ink came out. He scribbled harder, trying to get it to release a little fluid, but it didn't work. Just his luck. He tossed the pen to the side and plucked another from the holder. Same story. Frustrated, he threw that one off the desk and grabbed another. And another, and another, until he'd gone through every pen in the holder. Pidge still hadn't moved.

There was one last option, one that was sure to work. A pencil stood in the container. Lance swore he saw a ray of light shining down on it. He pulled it out of the holder, his eyes wide as he brought it to the paper.

"Okay. Can't ignore me now, Pidge."

The graphite squeaked as he dragged it over the soft material. A flurry of words erupted onto the paper as he assigned words to the array of emotions he'd experienced over the last several moments, writing until his hand ached from the strain. When he was satisfied, he dropped the utensil and held up his handiwork.

All he could see were Pidge's notes. No divots, no specks of ink or graphite—no trace of the words he'd written existed. He released the paper, letting it float to the floor. It landed by Keith's feet.

"What the fuck?" he whispered. A lump rose in his throat. What was happening? Keith's abrupt appearance, Pidge's unresponsiveness, the lack of marks on the page—he couldn't make sense of any of it. The facts whirled around his brain, tightened around his neck and clenched, sending the room spinning.

"Lance—"

"What the _fuck?_ "

"Lance!"

" _What?_ "

Keith was still behind him. Even so, Lance could feel him shrink back as his voice quieted. He spoke slowly, anchoring Lance's bouncing brain.

"Remember what I said earlier? About how I can't write?"

Of course he did. He repeated what Keith told him earlier: he couldn't communicate with living people, and that included writing. Why would he be bringing that up, though? Lance wasn't _dead_ , unless—

 _No._

He was alive.

Right?

Lance spun around Keith for confirmation. Keith clenched his fists as he looked down and closed his eyes, carving lines into his forehead. His whole body stiffened, his face contorting as if he were experiencing a pain worse than anything Lance had ever known. They stood there for what seemed like an eternity before Keith was able to summon his voice again.

"You're dead."

Lance couldn't breathe.

"No."

He glanced at Keith, then at Pidge, and then back at Keith before backing away from the desk, his hands trembling. He wasn't dead, that was impossible. His heart throbbed in his chest, echoing in his throat, its rapid pulse a thudding whisperwhispers of _alive, alive, alive_ , beating in time with each pump. To prove his point, he pressed a hand against his chest, feeling for the familiar thump of the organ. But know that he actually felt for it, waiting to count out a rhythm, he felt nothing; it was as if his heart had been carved out and replaced with a vast emptiness.

What little energy he had left fled and he collapsed to his knees. His hand remained planted on his chest, weighed down by truth. Realization clashed with disbelief, each brandishing a sharp sword .sharper swords with each row. He was dead; it made sense, brought the confusion to a silence. But that also meant he wouldn't get to go on that trip he'd been planning for months; that he wouldn't get to hug his mother or cradle his soon-to-be-born nephew against his chest. Being dead meantHow he'd never get to speak to his siblings again or feel the warm sun of his favorite beach. That his life, that the meanings he had constructed for himself—all had irrevocably ended, their remains scattered to the wind.

A sob ripped through his throat and he pulled his knees to his chest, burying his face in them. If he did that, he thought, maybe everything he'd learned in the last ten minutes would cease to be real. Keith sank down next to him. At some point, he'd picked up the paper with Pidge's notes and rested the evidence on the floor in front of them, the veiny creases Lance's scribbling had left behind pulsing from the page.

Keith sank to the floor beside him, resting on his knees. Lance looked at him, his eyes marred with red, but didn't lift his head.

"How long did you know?"

"I had a feeling when we met but I didn't know for sure until...Pidge."

"You couldn't have told me earlier?"

"I wanted to be sure."

Lance cried harder but, though Keith made no move to console him. It wasn't something Keith often had to do during his time as leader. Most of the Blades, by necessity of their mission, needed to know how to reset their emotions in order to keep going. Memorials, if there were any, were brief, and distress was dealt with swiftly. Keith was raised with that mindset and even though centuries had passed, it wasn't something he could quite shake.

Only his memories were stronger than his instincts. As Lance cried, he was reminded of only one fact: that when he died, not a single person aboard the ship heard his throat-tearing screams of realization, saw the hole he'd left behind in one of the walls, or noticed his tears. He had been alone.

Lips taut, he went on standby. Lance would speak to him when he was ready. For now, all he could do was root him to the ground.

Pidge took another sheet of paper and continued to write.

* * *

Tears were like static, Lance mused. They dampened the world around him, shushing it to a comforting low. The mumbles of a swelling crowd disintegrated into ambiance. Discordant steps syncopated in familiar rhythms. They allowed Lance to focus on what he needed to most—his grief. He let it overtake his mind, consuming him.

Though he hadn't been dead for long, his life already seemed like something in the distant past, written down in a history book for a student to stumble upon. Not long ago, he'd been that student.

Eventually, his numbness faded, and the noises that had fallen to the back of his mind earlier came back in force, their claws primed for an attack on the part of Lance's brain that catapulted him back into awareness. It was loud, too loud, and Lance curled further in on himself, too exhausted to cry anymore.

"I need to leave," he mumbled, shuddering as the words materialized. They felt childish coming from him, but realization had coated his mouth with waxy desperation.

Keith groaned as he got up, his legs stiff from being stuck in one place for too long. A patron was standing next to them. Although the patron couldn't see Keith, they moved out of the way as Keith took a steadying step backward. They didn't express interest otherwise. Lance wondered if there was something innate about it, something that the subconscious was aware of that the conscious was not. Had he really been around ghosts his entire life, his every move guided by their undetectable, yet clear presence? Then he remembered what Keith had told him. Lance was the first to see him since his death. If there were more ghosts out there, it was evident that there weren't many.

"I know a place," he said. Holding his hand out, he reached for Lance, urging him to follow. Lance took a deep breath, wiped the remaining dampness from his cheeks, and took the offered hand, squeezing tightly as he pulled himself up. Pain shot up his legs. He wondered how long it would take to go away, how pain worked with his ghostly form. Perhaps he'd ask Keith later, when the idea of being a ghost didn't feel so overwhelming.

"We have to get to the door on that side wall," Keith stated, tilting his head in the direction of the passage. The door was on the side closer to the information desk near the landing of a staircase. Its location would be an added obstacle—the staircase was intricate, with the crests of various Blade leaders carved into the spandrel beneath it, concealed behind a glass panel. Keith's was recorded near the bottom right, close to the end of the chain, its curves and dips more brittle than the rest.

The area was surrounded. Though unseen, they still had an army's worth of people to push through. Lance wasn't sure he was up for it. Hopefully they would part.

Keith marched into the crowd without another word, tugging Lance along with him as he angled his way through. An elbow shot out here, a hip there; he dodged them with ease. Lance, on the other hand, didn't turn out so lucky—someone's chin rammed him in the cheek as they made a sharp turn.

Once they finished making their way to the door, Keith stopped in front of it. Today's crowd had been cooperative enough to not block the space, as per the sign on the door. Lance let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"We have to wait," Keith said. "The door's locked."

"Wait," Lance said. He reached into his pocket and fished out his wallet, flipping it open to the card slots. Lance took his employee ID out. Keith frowned.

"It won't work," he said.

"Won't know until you try."

With that, Lance waved the card in front of the scanner. The light didn't shift, nor did the device make a sound in response. Well, he couldn't say he was surprised. He put the card away and turned to Keith.

"So how long do we have to wait?"

Keith shrugged.

"Someone starts their shift in fifteen dobashes. Narrise, I think?"

That sounded about right. Narrise was one of the newer additions to the staff. Like most of the other volunteers and interns, he worked a slightly adjusted schedule for the first week. Keith and Lance were lucky; his introductory week ended that day.

Keith leaned against the wall, examining the fingers of his suit. Some of the seams were beginning to fray. He played with one of the stray strands for a moment before snapping it off. Lance frowned.

"You shouldn't do that, you'll damage it more."

"Oh well. I could use an excuse to get rid of this."

"Is it uncomfortable?"

"No, I've just been wearing it for deca-phoebs."

"More like centuries. Also, gross. Do you even wash it?"

"Doesn't get dirty."

Lance gagged, only to realize Keith was right. He hadn't noticed any odd smells coming from him. If he'd been wearing the suit for as long as he said without washing it, he probably would have smelled something. Unless ghosts broke body odor rules, which was very possible.

"So do you shower or anything?"

Keith leaned a little too far to one side and stumbled. His face turned red as he found his balance again, eyes wide.

"What kind of question is that?"

"Sorry, man. Just had to ask. You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

Keith groaned. Whether or not he answered, Lance would come to the same conclusion. At least he could minimize the damage if he said something.

"No. At the beginning I did, but they disconnected the showers a long time ago. When you're dead, you don't smell, so it's not a big loss."

"Did you figure that out after they turned it off?"

"I figured it out pretty quickly, actually. I would sweat when I ran through the ship and my hair—," he said, running a hand through his locks, "Would get damp like it always did. I'd usually start to smell it after a little while."

Lance wrinkled his nose.

"But?"

"That didn't happen. I didn't even feel the sweat on my body after. It was like my body remembered _how_ to react, but not what it _meant_ to react."

"Was that what happened earlier—?" Lance placed a hand over his chest again, feeling for his heartbeat. The intense pounding in his chest—it had felt so real, just like it had when he was alive. But just as before, nothing responded on the other side of his sternum.

"Yeah. Don't think about it too much."

His hand dropped.

"How can you even say that?" he asked, voice cracking as a lump rose in his throat. He popped it before it could surface, sending it rolling through his body, into his blood. Lance clenched his jaw. Not think about it? When his life had been ripped away from him in the course of a day, possibly even less?

Keith flinched.

 _Because it makes sense_ , he wanted to say. _Because I know what this feels like. Because it'll only hurt more if you think about it. If you try to look for what's normal—_

But Narisse arrived before he could answer, waving his ID in front of the scanner. Lance lunged for the door, prying it open just long enough for Keith to pass through.

"Lead the way," he said.

"Lance, I'm—"

"Don't say anything, just show me where to go."

"Right."

Keith hung his head as he made his way down the narrow corridor, Narisse's pace only a little faster than theirs. He seemed to be heading in the same direction as them.

Lance trailed behind Keith, his steps slow and deliberate. Keith knew he'd fucked up, his pragmatism ill-timed. It had gotten him into all kinds of trouble when he was alive, but this felt far worse than anything he'd ever experienced. Back then he could just brush an awkward interaction off or, in the particularly bad cases, someone else would help smooth things over. There were always others he could turn to. That was what kept him steady at the end of the day—having someone to fall back on, even if he didn't necessarily enjoy being around others. Without that he fell apart.

Meeting Lance brought that longing back in full force. He should have known he'd mess it up somehow, just like how he'd lost the Blade so many potential allies. But then, there had been other allies. There was only one Lance.

They made their way to the stairwell at the end of the corridor, heading down three flights of stairs to where the former barracks were housed. Only a small section of it was available for the public to see, housed in a separate block. While the rest of the rooms were kept in pristine condition, they were rarely used outside of the few that had been converted to storage closets. Lance never saw a reason to go down there.

The barracks consisted of a series of long hallways lined with cabins of varying capacity. A small peephole was installed on each door, likely an additional safety measure for when the base was under attack and its inhabitants were trapped in their rooms. The cabins themselves were small inside, often just large enough to fit their inhabitants and perhaps a handful of small belongings each. Narisse split from them at the first intersection.

Keith's cabin of choice was near the corner. Its locking mechanism had been broken for some time—Lance could see where the metal had melted off the edge of the door. Really, it was a miracle the thing still even slid closed.

Carefully, he placed a hand on the adjacent panel. A whistling noise filled the air, bouncing down the corridor like a child tearing through a playground. He stepped aside to let Lance in.

It was a standard cabin, one of the smaller ones with just enough sleeping space for two occupants. A slab of metal jutted out from either side of the room, its center hollowed out to house a thin mattress. Lance poked it: hard as a rock. At least the sheets were still soft.

He sank down on it and looked around the room. A small nightstand stood near each bed; the one closest to Lance had a drawer jutting out of it. He toed it closed, only for it to pop back open, empty of contents, save for a few Galran letters scratched into the bottom. Lance wondered what they meant. Maybe he'd ask Keith.

 _Keith._

Keith plopped down on the opposite bed and brought his knees to his chest, resting the side of his body against the wall. Clearly, he was keeping his distance. _Good_ , Lance thought, and swung his legs over the bed, stretching himself out on the mattress. Laying a hand over his eyes, he tried to process what had happened in the last few hours, but his mind was too jumbled to sort it out. Pain shot through his neck again. Sighing, he sat up and cupped it, trying to massage the pain away, but it seemed that no matter how much he pressed the muscles, the pain only increased. By the time he dropped his hand, Keith had turned back to face him, eyebrows raised.

"What?" Lance asked, momentarily forgetting about his anger.

"Your neck—does it hurt?"

Lance rolled his eyes.

"Lance, answer the question." Keith's voice lowered. A command.

Lance scowled. What made Keith think he could order him around, especially after what he said? He turned his nose up in the air, refusing to answer Keith.

"Look, I'm sorry about what I said," Keith tried again, exasperated. "I just thought that if you didn't think about it, it wouldn't hurt as much."

"I literally just found out I was dead. I don't think you can tell me how to process it. Seriously, do you even know what it's like for your body to trick you into feeling your heartbeat, only for nothing to actually be there?"

"Of course I do," Keith said, gritting his teeth. "That's why I said it."

Lance bit his lip and looked away. Shit, he hadn't even thought of that. _Of course_ Keith had been there before. Thinking back on it, Keith's advice came from a place so deeply personal that Lance hadn't even so much as scratched the surface of. Maybe not the most sensitive of advice, given the situation, but not something Lance could continue to hold a grudge against now that he realized why Keith had said what he did.

"It's okay. I forgive you."

"You shouldn't. It wasn't right for me to say that."

"I think I should. And no, it wasn't right, but I get where you were coming from. So let's drop it and leave it at that. Now, what were you asking about my neck?"

"Does it still hurt?"

"Yeah."

"When did it start?"

"This morning, I think."

"I see. Where did you wake up, again?"

"In my room."

"What do you remember from last night?"

"I left my room to go somewhere and then—"

That was weird. Lance couldn't recall what had happened after.

"That's it?"

"Yeah."

Keith placed a hand on his chin, rubbing a thumb over his cheek, studying Lance. A few minutes passed before he spoke again.

"Okay, I need you to unbutton the collar of your shirt."

"What?"

"Just do it. I'm not asking you to undress, just undo the top button of your collar."

Lance turned red. Just what was Keith onto? He reached up and slipped the button out of the hole, smoothing the collar out. Keith gasped and closed in on Lance until their noses were practically touching.

"What is it?"

Keith went to the nightstand near his bed and rifled through the drawers, pulling out a small mirror with a plain black frame. He brought it over to Lance, angling it so that he could see what Keith was talking about.

"It's just like I thought. Your neck's all bruised up." He prodded at one of the darker sections in the center. Lance yelped and jumped back, swatting the mirror out of his hands, shattering it on the floor. He gave Keith an apologetic look, but the other waved it off.

"What does it mean?" Lance asked.

Keith grasped the neck of his uniform with both hands and pulled the material down, revealing the skin of his own neck., mottled with blue and purple marks. They looked fresh, just like Lance's.

"Remember how I died?"

Lance swallowed hard, slowly putting his hands around his neck. Strangulation. That was what Keith's bruising was from, and if his bruising was the same—

"Oh god. _Oh god._ "

* * *

To say Keith was angry was an understatement. No, he was absolutely furious. If his body could still pump blood, he was sure it would be so hot it would blister his veins. Someone else had been murdered on base and even though centuries had passed since he led the Blade, he still felt responsible. Someone who hadn't deserved it.

Keith wasn't sure the last time he felt this alive. Suddenly, his heart was filled with the desire to find justice—or at least an answer, even if it wasn't for him. His chance had passed long ago; Lance's was still out there, tangible and real.

For now, though, they were stuck. Narisse had probably left the area some time ago, and nobody would come down for at least another few vargas. Accepting their predicament, Keith dug a deck of cards out of one of the drawers and began to teach Lance a game as they went over some of the facts.

"Why do you think we both woke up in our rooms?" Keith asked.

"Hmm. Significance, maybe?"

"Maybe. I stopped by my room for something and then—" Keith frowned, arching his eyebrows as he dug around his brain for answers. "I don't remember, now that I think about it."

"Same with me. I can't remember anything that happened after I left my house last night. I think that has something to do with it. Our last memory. The oxygen loss probably messed up the rest of it, like you said." Lance pondered over his cards. "I have three sofirorgs."

"Really? Because I remember discarding two of those earlier." Keith smirked. Lance cursed and drew three cards. "And yeah, I think that's a pretty safe bet at this point."

"So, Keith, I had a question."

"Shoot."

"Has anyone else ever died in this museum?"

"Yes. I've seen a couple of people have heart attacks, lorine tightening, sudden stuff like that."

"Why do you think they never showed up? You think there's an unfinished business thing going on with us?" Lance swallowed hard. "Or do you think there's something else going on?"

"Like what?"

"A connection."

"Well," Keith said, setting his hand down. "Our circumstances are similar, so I wouldn't rule it out. But I can't say anything beyond that."

"Yeah, I guess it's too early to tell." Lance groaned, massaging his neck again. "Does this ever go away?"

"It'll get better over time, but it won't go away completely. I still get pains sometimes. I've tried taking pain medicine for it before, but it doesn't work."

"That sucks."

"Yeah. There are a lot of things that suck about this." To his surprise, Lance cracked a smile in response as he drew another card from the deck. "You're not dead long enough to laugh at stuff like that."

"Says who?"

"Me."

"And how long did it take you?"

"A while." Keith set his hand down in front of him, revealing three pairs of cards. "I win."

"No fair," Lance said, dropping the deck. "You already knew how to play."

"Maybe, but I was the worst at bluffing back when I played with Kolivan. I always lost."

"Does that mean I should take this as an insult?"

Keith shrugged.

"Up to you."

He swiped Lance's hand from him, mixed the remaining cards back into the deck, and tied a rubber band around them, giving the drawer a swift kick as he tossed the deck back inside. With a click, it sealed shut. Lance thought back to the broken drawer and the markings he'd seen.

"Hey, Keith."

"Hm?"

"There are some markings in that drawer," he pointed to the piece of furniture in question. "Do you know what they say?"

"Oh, that. That's—Regris and I did that when we were kids."

"Regris?"

"One of my closest friends. He disappeared on a mission a few phoebs after Kolivan's death." Keith chewed on his bottom lip and closed his eyes. "There's nothing too special about those marks. They just say our names and the year we carved them in. After my mother died, I marked a bunch of spots on base up with her knife."

"Why?"

"I was really upset that the knife was the only thing I had to remember her by. So I decided that I wanted to leave a mark somewhere." _A record,_ was what he really wanted to say. One that he could see and touch. "That one with Regris was the first."

"So is this your room?"

"Before I became the leader, yes. My mother and I shared this room. After she passed, Kolivan and Thace would take turns sleeping in the other bed so that I wasn't alone. They tried to move me into one of their rooms, but I wouldn't budge."

Keith kneeled next to the broken drawer and ran a finger across the rifts, mouthing the letters silently. His lips were curved into a small smile, but his eyes told a different story: the lids hung half-open, his irises dulled. Lance stood behind him, gently squeezing one of his shoulders. Keith closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then slammed the drawer shut. It didn't pop back out this time.

He glanced at the clock.

"We should be ready to leave in about twenty dobashes. Wrov comes in here around then, before the start of her shift. We'll have to wait for her outside so we can time our exit with hers."

* * *

Lance knew Wrov only in passing: she was a security guard who worked the late afternoon shift. He'd seen her show up early a few times, only to disappear and reappear some time later, always punctual and prepped for work. And relaxed. Very relaxed. Lance had a few theories in mind for why that was.

"There any reason in particular she comes down here?"

"You really want to know?"

"Yes." Lance tried to restrain his eagerness, not wanting to seem too nosy.

Keith smirked and pulled the nightstand away from the wall, its legs screeching as it was dragged across the floor. Then, he dove into the space he'd created, rummaging around until—

"Found it."

He raised his hand triumphantly. A small black bag dangled from his fingers, its drawstrings fraying at the edges. It swung freely as he brought it over to Lance; whatever was in there couldn't have been too heavy.

"What is it?"

A grin crossed Keith's face from ear to ear. Mischief pooled in the dimples of his cheeks. He slid the bag off and dipped his index fingers inside, releasing a sweet smell.

"Take a look."

Lance peered inside the bag. The lighting in the room wasn't the best, but he could make out the soft, jagged shape of a plant inside. Long orange stems curled around themselves, tangling together so tightly that he couldn't tell where they began. A line of blue ran down the center of each, almost like…

"What?" Lance cried. "Tujen _?"_

Keith nodded, emptying the contents of the bag into his hand.

"There's a vent in the back of this room that leads directly outside. Nobody finds out that way. Well, except for me."

"Where'd she even find it?"

To say tujen was hard to find was an understatement—it had been outlawed over two hundred deca-phoebs prior due to its potent effects. Every known source had been destroyed. Just a fraction of a stem would fetch a lot of money.

"There must have still been some in storage somewhere and it's pretty strong stuff. I think the stems we had were a few hundred deca-phoebs old. Some of us liked to smoke it between missions to relax."

Several areas of the ship had been unofficially designated as smoking areas. Some were more pungent than others. Over the years, Keith learned which ones to avoid. Not only would the smell make him dizzy, but sometimes the odor was so strong it would seep into his clothes, even from several rooms away. Kolivan disapproved of it, wanting to have his crew alert at all times, but turned a blind eye to the activity as long as they weren't jeopardizing the mission. Well, turned a blind eye to everyone except Keith—he'd been the one exception, having expressly forbidden Keith from taking part.

"So what was it like?"

"I don't smoke it."

"Wait wait wait—" Lance threw his arms in the air with a dramatic flair. "So you're telling me that you've had access to tujen this whole time and you _haven't_ smoked it?"

"I didn't say that I haven't. I just said that I don't."

"So you did, then?"

"Uh, once. I didn't react well."

"You can't just say that and not tell me what happened."

Keith rolled his eyes and looked away from Lance, trying to fight off the red that crept up his cheeks.

"Regris got some from one of the weapons engineers and smoked it in here. He was fine, but I ended up getting really paranoid and shaky. Regris tried to hide it for a few vargas, but he couldn't calm me down and my tremors got worse, so he called Kolivan."

"Guessing he wasn't too happy."

"Not at all. He wanted to kill me."

"In what sense?"

The color drained from Keith's face.

"Bad joke?"

"Bad joke."

Wrov entered the room.

* * *

Keith hadn't said a word since they sat in the hallway. The scent of Wrov's tujen trickled through the door. In the bag, it had been a strong burst, but tolerable; once alight, the odor multiplied tenfold and the sweetness became sickening, sending Lance's stomach turning. Gags danced along his throat, threatening to send whatever contents—if there were any—flying out. He swallowed them down with hard force.

They sat for half a varga, then followed Wrov out to the lobby. It was close enough to closing time that the lobby was relatively empty of people, the end-of-day rush for photos having not kicked in yet. Pidge stood near the information desk talking to a man with a wide build, dark hair, and brown skin. Lance stopped dead in his tracks. He'd recognize that man anywhere.

"Hunk," he murmured.

Keith raised an eyebrow. He'd seen the man before, but didn't know of his connection to Lance.

"My best friend."

Lance and Hunk landed internships at the same museum purely by accident. Like Pidge, his field was more specialized than Lance's: Hunk focused on engineering for interactive exhibits, helping to pitch new ideas and upkeep old ones. His internship term was the same as Lance's, with the option to be renewed upon the head's approval.

"You're not usually in today," Pidge said.

"Yeah, got called in to cover for someone who didn't show up." Hunk glanced around, checking for any other staff members, then leaned in to Pidge and whispered, "Who's the no-show?"

Pidge clicked her tongue, whipping her phone out and examining her text history. Keith hovered over her, peering at the screen.

"Rude," Lance commented.

"Have you heard from Lance?"

"Not since yesterday. Why?"

"Because he was the no-show."

Hunk frowned.

"I'll text his mother. Maybe he just wasn't feeling well and forgot to call in."

"No!" Lance leapt for Hunk's phone, but couldn't pull it out of his hands. His mother was already stressed out enough as it was; he couldn't bear the thought of her finding out he was missing. All he saw was her collapsing onto the couch, her favorite game show playing in the background as she cried, wondering where her son had vanished to. And the worst news was yet to come. _Please, just spare her, if only for a day._

Lance's pleas went unheard, of course. He shivered as Hunk sent the text.

"Still," Pidge said. "That's not really like him. Lance can be a bit irresponsible at times, but he generally shows up eventually, you know?"

"Believe me, I know—She responded."

"What did she say?"

"Not good, she hasn't heard from him either. I'll try shooting him a text."

"Me too."

Both sent out a quick text, eager to hear from their friend. Hunk clutched his phone so tight Lance thought it would shatter beneath the strength of his hands. Pidge fidgeted, tossing the phone between her hands as she waited for a response. Hunk's went off first.

"Well?"

"Message failed."

Pidge's phone vibrated. Chewing the inside of her cheek, she unlocked it, looking for the telltale red text. She didn't want to find it. But she did, anyway.

"Same here."

"Okay," Hunk exhaled and leaned against the counter, trying to steady his breathing. "Stay calm. Stay calm. We don't know where Lance is, but we can't panic yet, right?"

"You're already panicking."

"I know."

"We don't know what's going on with Lance yet. He could be okay."

"I know!"

Pidge pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Let's try stopping by his apartment once you're done with your shift, then we can figure out what to do from there. Try to keep yourself composed."

"Okay. I can hang on a little longer."

"And Hunk," Pidge said, turning to leave, "Don't tell anyone what's going on. Not yet."

Hunk nodded, forcing a smile onto his face.

"I'll meet you at Lance's later."

"All right. See you then." She gave him a wave and adjusted the straps on her backpack, vanishing through the door. Once she was out of sight Hunk sighed and rearranged some of the pamphlets on the information desk.

As soon as he had finished, Lance shuffled them. He could let himself pretend, right? As if Hunk would notice and scold Lance for messing up his hard work. That his best friend would be the one to the break the pattern.

He held his breath as Hunk turned around—

 _Please._

—and gave the setup a nod of approval. Hunk wasn't happy, though. His mind was elsewhere, ignorant that the person he was searching for had become unreachable.

 _God. This is real._ All of it was real. Lance felt like he'd aged fifty years.

"Guess we're heading to my place next, huh?"

"Yeah," he said. To his surprise, Keith continued on as if the exchange in the barracks hadn't happened. "That door shouldn't be locked. Housing used to have automatic ones, but they stopped working a while back."

"I don't remember locking it before I left, either. Well, I guess that would have been impossible, now that I think about it."

"Very," Keith chuckled. "We should probably investigate before Hunk and Pidge arrive. There might still be some clues in your apartment."

* * *

By the time they left the museum the sun had disappeared below the horizon, giving way to the night's guiding lights. Cool air settled around them, filling Lance with a frantic energy. He ran far ahead of Keith, eager to see his apartment—to investigate before his friends upturned any clues. By the time his hands were around the handle, however, his resolve had shifted, and he froze, his chest tightening as it hit him.

The last time he'd gone home, it was different. There had been the worries about his future, the stress from work, the aching limbs. But he hadn't felt hollow. He hadn't felt like a part of the past, his life already woven into time's twisted knot, feeding into the next.

The asshole that killed him was going to pay. He'd make sure of it.

"Lance?" Keith called out to him as he approached. "Why aren't you going in?"

"Just—" he began to twist, but let go after a moment. "We should examine the frame, right? See if there's any sign of forced entry?"

Keith brushed his thumb against his lip as he weighed Lance's suggestion.

"Good call."

Lance issued a silent thank-you, then knelt down by the edge of the door frame, while Keith examined the door handle and higher part of the frame.

"Shouldn't I be the one checking out the top part? I'm the taller one."

"By a couple of inches, don't give yourself too much credit." Keith stood on his toes and leaned in to get a better look, pressing one of knees to Lance's back for support.

"Hey, at least I can get myself up."

Lance yelped as Keith dug his knee in, sending them both tumbling, Keith's cheek smashing into Lance's head. Groaning, he shot his partner a glare and rubbed the sore spot, touching it gingerly with his fingers to assess the damage. Convinced that it wasn't anything major, he returned his attention to the door.

The door frame was perfectly intact with the exception of a few scrapes in the metal, all of which were cosmetic and found nowhere near the locking mechanism. Clusters of dirt lined the crack closest to the floor, extending out toward them. Keith ran his finger through them some of them, noting how it rubbed off a dark, charcoal gray.

"Ash?" Lance proposed.

"Looks like it," Keith said. "The incinerator?"

"Maybe, but there isn't a lot. It could have easily been picked up by someone's shoe if they walked past a smoker or burnt tree or something. Unless—"

Lance knelt down, studying the deposits more closely. They were spread out over two sections, with some of the bits shaped into hexagons. Some of them were more clustered together than others; the most clustered ones were evenly spaced out.

"I think this is a shoe print. Or part of one. There was ash on their shoe and it rubbed off as they were coming in...or something like that."

Keith nodded.

"Makes sense. We can't be sure, but I think that's the best we have for now." Satisfied with the investigation, he turned to open the door, but Lance's hand caught him.

"Look," he said, pointing down. Keith looked at the corner, squinting as he scanned for what Lance was pointing at. He blinked hard when he saw it: several threads jammed in the frame. Lance bent down and pinched the strands, motioning for Keith to open the door. The tension keeping them in place disintegrated. Lance settled them in his palm, then brought it closer to Keith.

"Seem familiar?"

Keith shook his head.

"They could be from anyone. It's a pretty common color."

Lance agreed, but as he rolled the strands between his fingers, he felt uneasy. They were thick, thicker than anything they worked with back on Earth, and their texture felt familiar somehow, but he couldn't pin it down. Familiar and recent, but why couldn't he remember?

Keith snapped him out of his thoughts before he could dwell further.

"Ready?"

Lance gulped and pushed the door open slowly, tracking its movement across the floor for anything amiss. After finding nothing, he turned his attention to the rest of the dwelling. His quarters were small: a tiny, cramped studio with barely enough room for a bed, a dining table for one, and a dresser.

The space was a mess. To say that a hurricane had blown through would have been paying it a compliment. Furniture was overturned, items had been strewn about everywhere. For some reason, Keith was particularly attracted to a lump of blanket that had been thrown to one side of the bed, the sheet had been pulled off in one corner. He eyed it with disdain.

"Never thought you'd be such a stickler for that kind of thing."

"It was trained into us. If our beds weren't made properly, we had to do our unit's laundry for two phoebs."

"Fair.," Lance said, looking at his bed. "Anyway, where should we start?"

"Can you give me your hand for a second?"

Keith reached for it before he could answer. Straightening Lance's fingers, he brought them closer to his face, bending Lance's wrist to put his fingernails on display. Silently, he scrutinized them, tuning out the rest of the world around him. Lance stiffened in his grasp. If he had to be honest, the whole thing was making him uncomfortable. He jerked his hand away.

"Keith, what the fuck?"

"Do you have any swabs around here?"

"Keith, you can't just grab my hand—"

"I think I saw some blood under your nails. Look." He tapped two of Lance's fingers.

Lance examined them. Part of one nail had broken off at the edge, and both had a thin line of red where the nail bed ended. Flipping them over revealed a few small clumps of red that had been obscured. Was this blood his attacker's? Had he fought back? Every hair on his body stood up.

"There are some in the bathroom."

"Okay. Don't do anything with that hand."

Keith ran to the bathroom and rummaged through the cabinets, accidentally setting loose the army of aluminum product cans Lance had stuffed beneath the sink. Lance stifled a laugh as he heard Keith curse, trying to put the cans away. They clanked against the tile, against each other, and by the time he managed to get them back under the sink, Lance was sure that he'd accidentally written an entire album. Keith came back out not long after, a cotton swab tucked between each finger like a weapon.

He pinched one of Lance's fingers between his own and poked the swab under, prodding the edge of Lance's nail bed. The cotton tip did little to protect him from the hard stick and Keith tightened his grip, gouging out the sample from the hollow of the nail. Wincing, Lance dug his foot into the ground.

Keith pulled the swab away and rolled it between his fingers, showing off the curl of skin and blood to Lance, who gagged at the sight.

"Too bad, you're going to have to hold it while I do the other one."

"You could just ask for a bag, you know."

"Where are they?"

"Kitchen. Cabinet next to the fridge."

Keith nodded and retrieved a few bags from the cabinet, slipping the swabs into one of them and zipping it closed. A marker sat on the counter next to it; he swiped it up and scribbled a quick note on the bag: "DNA Sample. Index finger, left." He gathered up the evidence and returned to Lance, where he repeated the retrieval on his left middle finger. When he finished, he scrutinized each finger one more time before setting the evidence aside.

"You still have the thread?"

"Yeah, hang on."

Lance took the last bag and placed them inside, holding it up to the light. Here, he could see them better than he could in the doorway: this time, he could see a few splotches of brown. He pointed it out to Keith.

"More blood?"

"Maybe. Put it with the others."

"What are we going to do with them, anyway?" Lance asked. "We can't test them. I don't know the key to the analyzer they use for some of the artifacts. Can we even unlock it?"

"I—Shit! I don't think we can. I've written down logins for some of the computers around the museum and they haven't worked, even when I know they've been right. Shit, shit, shit." Keith pressed his foot against the bed frame and scowled. "Let's search the rest of the apartment."

He tore through the living area with a frenzied energy, toppling over every piece of furniture he could find and tearing the contents out, dropping them on the nearest surface with the softness of an anvil. Blankets, cleaning supplies, an old stuffed animal. None told him anything about Lance's killer.

"Calm down."

Keith ignored Lance as he stomped to the kitchen. Ripping open the cabinets, he dropped the dishes on the counter with the gentleness of an anvil. Clean, clean, clean. Everything was clean. But this was just a setback, right? There had to be something in the apartment. Something that would point to Lance's killer. He had to find it—he couldn't let Lance down.

"Keith!" Lance grabbed his wrists as he pulled a plate out. Keith jumped, sending the dish flying to the floor with an explosive shatter. He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, assessing the damage on the floor.

This plate was different from the others. While the others had mostly consisted of plain, white dishes, this one had a bright blue center. A section of it had been painted over with browns, oranges, and beiges, evoking the sand of a beach. Several people, or what were now their remains, were depicted on it. Keith picked up one of the shards. The face of a boy with brown skin and bright, aqua eyes had been painted on it.

 _Lance_.

Lance shook as he knelt down, gathering various heads, limbs, grains. Keith apologized and began to help Lance, but the other swatted his hand away. He worked methodically, gathering as many pieces as he could and dumping them onto the counter. When he had finished clearing off the floor, he held his palm out to Keith.

"Give it."

"I'm—"

"Give it to me, Keith."

Lance extracted it from his hands before he could react and set it on the counter. He turned back to face Keith.

"That dish had a picture of my family painted on it. It—" his voice cracked. "We were all at our favorite beach. Since everyone's ages varied so much, it was hard to get everyone together, but we managed it. To celebrate, we had that dish painted. Mom said I could take it with me after I left."

"I'm sorry for breaking it. I just—"

Lance sighed, cutting Keith off.

"It's all in the past now, I guess. Let's just...keep going."

* * *

Pidge and Hunk stood by Lance's kitchen counter. A pair of sandwiches and coffee cups sat at the edge, in front of the mess of dishes that only Keith and Lance had bore witness to. Pidge took a bite of one of the sandwiches and motioned to the rest of the apartment.

They were highlighting things Keith and Lance had missed, revealing possibilities that they hadn't yet considered. Keith was impressed with their deductive skills and stood there, listening intently. Lance clutched the shard he'd taken from Keith, only half-paying attention to his friends' conversation.

"Lance's laptop is missing. He never takes it out of the house so that can only mean—"

"That someone else took it!" Hunk said, pounding a fist into his palm with fervor.

"Exactly. And there was no damage to the door, so they couldn't have forced their way in. Which can mean one of a few things. One, that Lance opened the door and he let them in. The second is that Lance opened the door and they forced their way in without damaging the door. The third..."

"Is that someone has his ID card? And that whoever it is is responsible for his disappearance?"

"Bingo. But why Lance?"

"I can think of a reason," Hunk said, motioning to the rest of the apartment. "Or at least something that points us closer to it."

Pidge cocked her head, adjusting her glasses as she tried to put the pieces together. Realization hit her like a truck, a brunt force that swept her off her feet.

"The apartment's a mess. It's a mess _but_ ," she stated, before sucking in a breath. "But nothing was taken other than the laptop. Almost like someone was searching specifically for it."

"Exactly. But why would someone want Lance's laptop? It's not like he has any confidential info on there...right?"

Pidge's eyes widened. She ran her fingers over the phone in her pocket. Swallowing hard, she pulled it out and opened her conversation with Lance, reading his last text over and over.

"Remember what I wanted to show you?"

"Yeah?"

"It was Lance's last text to me. He said that I needed to see something, but wouldn't say what. It could just be a coincidence, but..."

"Given the condition the apartment's in, you don't think so?"

"It's a strong possibility. Maybe Lance saw something he wasn't supposed to."

Hunk pulled at the edge of one of his gloves, mulling over what Pidge had hypothesized. If what she said was true, there was a strong possibility that his best friend was in danger. Possibly even dead. _No._

Lance was alive. _Right_?

"What do you think it was?"

"That, I have no idea about. We were doing some research about the museum together recently, but I don't see why that would be relevant. Everything we knew was public knowledge, though we found one aspect a bit strange."

"What was it?"

"Every museum head has started as an intern. They start out like everyone else, but the head eventually makes them into an apprentice. The goal is for that person to take over in the future. That isn't the weird part. The weird part—" she said, inching closer to Hunk and shielding her mouth with her hand. "—is that the cycle is repeated every forty deca-phoebs."

"Precisely?"

"Precisely."

"And if that's not weird enough, the current head typically passes on days after their apprentice takes over."

"Strange."

"Yeah. No kidding."

* * *

"Is what they're saying true?"

Lance bit his lip and looked away from Keith. What Pidge said sounded familiar, but his memory was fuzzier than he realized. He could recall collaborating with her on something in the days preceding his death, but just what it was slipped through his grasp. He brushed his finger against the dish shard again and screwed his eyes shut. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

"I can't remember. I'm sorry."

Keith made a noise of resignation and rubbed his forehead.

"It's fine."

"Is there anything we can take away from what Pidge and Hunk talked about?"

"There's not a lot since we can't verify it, but one part of their conversation stood out. Remember what they said about the intern-head deal?"

"Yeah. You ever notice anything about it?"

"I never really paid attention to it before. The years kind of blended together, you know? So it didn't stick out to me."

"All right, what about it then?"

"The time frame. You might know this from your research into our base, but we have an AI manufacturing program hidden in the deepest levels."

Lance nodded.

"I remember that. You guys had a device that allowed you to copy a person's consciousness, right?"

"Yeah. A few groups had them. The Paladins had a consciousness stored in their base, though I don't know if their replicator was capable of copying anyone at that point."

That sounded about right. The technology stored in the Castle of Lions had been ancient and while most of the castle had survived intact, some parts hadn't. The AI replicator was one of them—in particular, it had been particularly vulnerable to outside interference. One of their enemies used this to their advantage, sending the castle's various features after its inhabitants. The story was famous enough that every historian buff knew it.

Keith cleared his throat, prompting Lance's attention.

"We used ours to preserve information from one generation to the next. When one of our heads would die we'd use the replicator to store their memories."

"But you could only backup a certain amount?"

"That's the thing. In the machine's most basic form we had a hard limit to what we could do, but if someone got in there and tweaked it…we could store more." Keith crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. "Someone did but I'm not sure what it means."

"Who?"

"Regris. He called me and Kolivan down one day to show us. He'd managed to find a way to merge the memories of our first leader with those of the one who preceded Kolivan, and popped them into one of our androids. Kolivan pressed it with questions about their history, and it answered perfectly." Keith smiled as he continued, remembering how Regris dragged him down the hallway before he could question him. Keith understood almost none of it, but nodded along, throwing out a few positive comments as Regris chattered about the discovery he'd made. "Regris was so excited to show us that he'd forgotten to test it by splicing two memory samples from the same subject together. I don't think I'd seen him that happy since we were kids."

"Did you tell anyone else?"

"No, it was still early on so we hadn't fully vetted it. But all of the tests seemed promising. Regris ran the one he missed without issue, then repeated them over and over with the same results. We were getting ready to announce our discovery when Kolivan died. Regris followed shortly after. And then-"

Keith's mouth went dry as he tapped his fingers against his neck, remembering that brief period after Kolivan's death. How he'd hung his head low after his first mission following, flames of shame engulfing his chest as he walked past the angry glares of his fellow Blades. The isolating quiet as Regris pulled away from him without explanation. The powerlessness he'd felt as the glass that had kept him steady began to crack beneath his feet, always catching up no matter how far he ran.

Suddenly, the hushed whispers of Lance's friends, the shuffling around the house stabbed at his eardrums. He couldn't see the floor, even though sticks of carpet stood out under the clutter. Everything was encroaching in on him, too close, too close-

Hands. On his shoulders.

"Keith. Breathe."

Air snaking its way through his lungs.

"Good, stay with me. Out, in."

A tap on his forehead. No, a rest. Something warm.

"You're doing well, just keep going."

Lance.

 _Lance._

* * *

Hunk yawned and stretched over the back of the chair. They'd turned the apartment upside-down (right-side up?) searching for clues, but didn't recover much other than a few threads in the doorway. Pidge examined it; upon closer inspection, it appeared to have a reddish-brown stain.

"Blood?" Hunk inquired.

"There's no way of knowing for sure, but I think so. And the material is...weird. The threads are smooth and soft on one side, but coarser once I spin them together. See?" She twisted them together and held it up for Hunk, who frowned and pinched it between his fingers.

"Don't contaminate the evidence."

"Look who's talking."

"You're right, though. I don't think I've ever seen anything like this before."

"Hmm...we might be able to analyze this, actually. There's a material scanner deep in the catacombs of the museum. There's just one problem."

"Clearance?"

"Yup. I can alter our security permissions but we'll still have to be sneaky getting down there. If Lance is in danger, we have to watch our every move. Someone could be monitoring our communications. We also can't do it tonight-it's too late and all of the evening staff has already swiped in. The system won't let us add any extra employees once the shift threshold has been reached."

"So you're saying we skip our shifts tomorrow."

"Yes. Best case scenario, we panicked over nothing and possibly lose our positions. Worst case," she said, but her voice cracked before she could finish the sentence. Pidge gulped and tried to continue, only for Hunk to cut her off. He understood: he didn't want to consider that possibility. With shaking hands, she lifted her coffee to her lips and took a sip.

"We should head to sleep soon, then."

"Yeah," she agreed, but didn't move from her spot. Hunk's eyes glazed over with a thin, wet film, but he forced a smile onto his face as reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. She sniffed and looked up. Away from Hunk, away from the suffocating hell that her life had become in such a short time.

 _Please, let me be wrong. Please, let this just be my overactive conspiracy-prone head. Please, just let him be safe._

* * *

By the time Keith calmed down, Pidge and Hunk had departed. His head still felt fuzzy, like it had been stuffed with an oversized pillow. Parsing his surroundings was proving difficult. Still, he felt safe, far removed from those memories that crept up on him.

He pulled his knees to his chest and rested his head on them. Lance stood next to him hovering over the stove. The faint sizzle of boiling water filled the room.

"How does chamomile sound?"

"Ghosts don't need to sleep."

"Maybe not, but you look tired."

Keith groaned and slammed the back of his head against the cabinet.

"I can take care of myself, you know."

"I know, but that doesn't mean you have to."

Once the water had come to a satisfying boil, Lance took two mugs from the pile of dishes and poured the liquid in. Steam billowed from the center in tight curls. Lance cupped a hand over one of them, letting the warmth tickle his palms. It felt hotter than usual. That was good - it kept him here, out of his head.

Pidge and Hunk were going to investigate the museum tomorrow, hoping they would find some clues or evidence he was alive. Creeping fear gnawed at the back of his mind as he watched the pieces fall into place, yet the sharp, bare inevitability of truth seemed far away.

Lance fetched a box of tea from the cabinet and pulled out two tea bags, plopped them into the mugs, and knelt down beside Keith, handing a mug off to him. Keith pulled on the string, watching color spurt from the bag and fill the mug. Drawing the rim to his lips, he blew some of the steam off before taking a sip.

He'd spoken more today than he had in deca-phoebs and his throat was beginning to get scratchy. The hot liquid was a wonderful salve in that regard as it rolled down his throat, soothing the discomfort. Keith looked down and shook the mug watching the tea swirl around inside.

"Shiro wanted me try this stuff a while back. Said it would help calm my nerves."

"Is it working?"

"Maybe, can't tell if it's you or the tea though."

Lance sputtered into his mug, nearly dropping it as the burning liquid launched back and hit him.

"That was-"

"What?"

"You can't just-"

Keith blinked.

"You know what, nevermind."

He gave Lance a questioning look, but shrugged and returned to his tea, circling his thumb against one of the walls of the mug. Lance sighed.

"What were they like? The Paladins, I mean."

Keith set his cup down and looked up, deliberating over what he was going to say. When he finally spoke, he paused after almost every sentence, his eyes darting about as he sorted through memory after memory.

"I didn't know most of them that well," he admitted. "Mostly, I spoke to Shiro and Allura. Shiro was the first human I'd ever met. Up until I met Shiro, I spent my life trying to figure out the other half of my identity - my mother died before she was able to fully convey it to me and fuck if any of the Blades knew what a human was. I spent my downtime searching, but couldn't come up with any answers. Then I saw Shiro,and I just _knew._ He taught me a lot about my human side. About the things that weren't Galra."

"And Allura?"

"We didn't get along at first. She didn't trust the Blades because the Galra had destroyed her entire race. I didn't blame her for that...that distrust she had. It took a while, but she accepted us." He picked the mug back up and took a long sip of his tea. "She was just as stubborn as I was and we argued a lot during mission briefings. But even then, we held a lot of respect for each other. And really, that was all I could ask for."

"They sound like amazing people. They always did. It's so different to actually hear it from someone who actually knew them though."

"Yeah. They really, really are...were." Keith chewed on his bottom lip and squeezed the ceramic. When he looked at Lance, his eyes were like those of a lost child's: wild, disoriented, glazed over with apprehension. "You think I'll ever see them again? Kolivan and Regris, too?"

Lance's arms went limp, dropping the mug on the floor. By the time he realized it was there, his mouth was moving, pushing Keith along, keeping him going. It was the only thing Lance could do.

"Yes. Of course you will."

"Really?" Keith said, raising his voice. "Because I've tried figuring out the culprit. I've tried accepting my death. I've tried waiting and nothing, _nothing_ has worked."

This wasn't a venom that had settled into his tone; no, it was a poison, force-fed into Keith by centuries of solitude. Of failures and of pain. One that Lance couldn't cure, one that Keith had to find the antidote to himself.

"Is there anything you haven't looked at?"

"I've been dead for three hundred deca-phoebs, what else is there _to_ look at?"

Lance bit his lip. He was treading on thin ice, no, _thinner_ ice, and he had one shot to guide Keith towards sturdy land; if he went about it the wrong way, it would shatter and crack beneath his weight. Like instinct, though, the way was clear. A calm he hadn't known in what seemed like a lifetime settled over him and he turned to Keith.

"You've been avoiding talking about Kolivan's death," Lance said. "Why?"

"Because it's not relevant."

"Why?"

"Because it just isn't."

"Clearly there's a reason that you're hiding it."

"You don't need to know."

Keith pushed himself up from the floor and rounded the counter, stopping in the archway. Gritting his teeth, he looked back at Lance. His eyes were hard, but thin. All Lance had to do was tip the conversation the right way and they would shatter.

"Don't touch Kolivan's death. I'm warning you," he sneered.

Lance gulped.

"But can you say you've really looked at everything if you haven't looked at it yourself?"

Keith cracked.

"There might be something in Kolivan's death that can help you," Lance continued. "Something that can help us."

"What else would there be?"

"I don't know, but maybe if you talk about it, we'll see something that you didn't before. Back when it was actually-"

"Okay," Keith breathed out. "I'll talk about it."

"Good. Let's move to the couch. The tile's hurting my ass."

Keith cracked a small smile, but otherwise didn't respond. Lance walked past him, picking up the couch cushions that had been tossed carelessly on the floor. After pushing them back into their rightful places, he flopped down on the couch, patting the spot next to him for Keith to join. Gingerly, Keith joined him, unsure of how close to sit. In the end, he left a few inches between them - better to be on the safe side, he reasoned. Lance placed a hand on his back.

"Whenever you're ready."

"Right." Keith nodded before continuing. "You know about the circumstances behind Kolivan's death, right?"

"Yeah. Died in battle." Like so many of the other Blades.

"The official record's one way of putting it. Reality is a different story."

"Oh?"

Some visitors _had_ raised suspicions about Kolivan's death. That the mission was too simple for such an experienced Blade to have died on. That the circumstances surrounding his death seemed _off_ somehow, even though no one could pin down a reason as to why. Everyone on staff brushed away those questions considering them to be completely unfounded, but if what Keith was saying was true, perhaps they did have a reason to be a bit doubtful, after all. Keith took a deep breath and continued, shaking as he spoke.

"Kolivan wanted to accompany us on the mission. It was a little weird—it was only a minor intelligence-gathering mission. Not something he normally went on."

"Who came with you?"

"Regris. He needed to extract the intel from from an enemy base while Kolivan and I would provide diversions or protection. Before we left, Kolivan pulled me aside. Told me that on the last mission he ran a capsule of quintessence exploded near him. Our head medic patched him up and ran some scans after, but didn't find anything wrong with him." Keith squeezed his hands together. "But a few phoebs later, Kolivan started noticing some weird symptoms, and they only got worse and worse. He'd have random pains all over his body and sometimes he'd lose feeling in his limbs even though he could move them. Somehow he managed to keep a straight face through all it all."

"What caused it?"

"Yarek, our head doctor, said that the quintessence he was exposed to may have been extremely concentrated, causing the reactions his body was having. Everything—his muscles, the neurological connections in his body—was withering away. It was a miracle he could still stand. Even then, she told me that he was beginning to have memory problems and that it was only a matter of time before he would lose the connections between his mind and body. Maybe half a year, at the most."

"There wasn't any treatment?"

"None of it was fast enough to reverse the effects. Shortly before the mission he'd started refusing treatment, realizing that he was wasting resources that could have gone to other valuable members. To Blades who weren't dying."

"He didn't want to stick around as long as he could?"

"No. If anything, he was ashamed. Like I said, the Blade didn't have the resources to spare. Keeping someone alive who was just going to die quickly, especially if they needed as much treatment as Kolivan required, was considered a waste." Tears stung at Keith's eyes but he swallowed them down. "Even if it was for our leader."

Keith said the last word with a stilted heaviness, as if he meant to replace it with another term. It came down with a crash, sending smoke billowing between the two. Lance spoke, even if it meant he would choke on his words.

"Did anyone know?"

Keith shook his head.

"No. Just me and Yarek, and even then, Kolivan hadn't told me anything until that point. I think he didn't want me to worry, but I was furious when he told me."

A lump formed in Lance's throat. He remembered when his uncle had been diagnosed with a terminal illness. Like Kolivan, he'd kept it a secret for a few months, wanting to preserve the relationships he had with his family before he summoned that dark cloud. But from his perspective, the rain had already soaked in; it was only a matter of time before he couldn't absorb anymore.

"I was so angry at him for hiding it from the rest of us. I screamed at him. I don't even remember everything that was going through my head. I thought he was selfish, yeah, but mostly I was angry that he didn't trust me enough to tell me, even though he pretty much raised me." Keith's voice began to waver, but he held steady, biting back the sob that threatened to break free of his throat. "He told me that he'd spent the last few months getting his affairs in order. Detailing to Yarek how to divide his duties, how to train his successor. Who he'd named as his successor."

"You."

Keith nodded.

"He also disclosed to them that he'd take his life in a way that it wouldn't reveal the truth about his condition to the rest of the Blade."

Lance stopped breathing.

"How?"

"He would go on a straightforward mission and stage an accident to take his own life. I was instructed not to save him, even if I saw an opportunity to do so without jeopardizing the mission. He didn't want anyone else to know the truth. In that regard, he trusted me completely." His face screwed up as if he were in pain. "Still, it's one thing to say you're going to leave someone for dead. It's another to actually do it. Everything happened so fast-Kolivan wound up under some debris and told me to run. I refused and tried to save him. I-even though the mission was more important, it was like something else had taken over, telling me not to leave him behind. But then Kolivan looked at me. He told me it was okay. I didn't want him to die, I dropped it all back down on him. He thanked me. Thanked. Me. And then I heard the beeping, and ran, dragging Regris out with me." Keith couldn't hold back his tears anymore; he sniffed, letting them fall. "I know the illness was what was really killing him. That the events that occurred that day were just an extension of it. But it felt like I killed him with my bare hands."

Lance was speechless. He pulled Keith into a hug, cradling him against his chest. Carding his fingers through his hair, he murmured calming phrases as Keith cried into him. His brain was elsewhere; piecing the puzzle together. Keith hadn't realized it yet, but he'd given Lance a valuable piece of information.

There was just one more key to be found.

"Keith...did Regris see any of this?"

Keith didn't answer.

* * *

They followed Pidge and Hunk into the museum the following morning. Keith still had a lingering headache from his crying session, appearing to have forgotten about Lance's final question. He seemed quieter than normal; perhaps he was beginning to put the pieces together.

Pidge logged in to the scanner using a set of false credentials. The machine was huge, jutting out halfway across the room. Hunk slid open one of the trays and plucked the strands of evidence out with a tweezer, closing the drawer with a squeak.

The analysis was quick: the thread was sourced from the same fabric as those of the Blade uniforms, which hadn't been manufactured since Keith's time. Even more curious, however, was the blood: according to the results, it was synthetic.

"An android?" Hunk asked.

"Looks like it. No idea if it's completely computer-generated, or an AI built from the memories of a living person. If the forty deca-phoeb rule is correct, then it's possible a new android is being built for every generation."

"Why, though? Can't you just keep the same android around?"

"Not if you're trying to pass them off as a real person. It would make sense, given the pattern and blood evidence. Even if that's not the case, it's obvious that someone's trying to keep a tight chain on the flow of information across generations. If Lance disrupted that flow, even if it was an accident-"

She fell silent as she realized what she'd just said. Judging by how pale Hunk was, the realization had set in for him, too. He stepped forward, fists raised and nostrils flaring with determination.

"No. Not until we find him."

There was a hesitation there, one that told Pidge that he didn't really believe his own words. Even still, she couldn't bring herself to give up hope.

"Right," she nodded. "Any theories as to what they want to hide?"

"Not a clue. As far as I know, there haven't been any major incidents recorded since the museum's founding. Maybe check up on the founder first then research some more."

"Got it. I'll look into him, see if I can find any records . Then I'll go into the base's data archives. There has to be something hidden in there." Pidge whipped her backpack around and set it on the floor.

"You sure we should be doing this in here? Doesn't this make us like, sitting ducks, or something?"

"I won't be able to see the museum's data files if we're outside. If we go upstairs, that'll just make people question why we're not working. As much as I don't want to do this here, it's the only way. Can you start finding a place to hide? This will take a bit."

Hunk chewed the inside of his cheek and nodded.

"Got it, just let me know if you need anything." He leaned down and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

Pidge shot him a smile and got to work, weeding her way through the forest of data. Breaking past the museum's first level of security didn't take long, revealing several sectors she was unable to access but were clearly in use. _Time to get to work_ , she told herself.

Meanwhile, Hunk made his way down the adjacent hall, testing the doors for any openings. When he found none, he felt along the wall for secret passages. The base was bound to have some. Be dragged his fingers across the metal, pressing them here and there until he felt a warmth beneath his skin. The spot glowed a faint purple and the door slid open, revealing a bare room, devoid of furniture with the exception of a small panel opposite the door. A long stretch of machinery connected it to the wall, concealed by carefully soldered metal. Covering the panel were several buttons and slots. Coiled connector cables hung from a few of them. Although Hunk was familiar with Galra tech, he didn't recognize any of them. Curious, he approached them tentatively, stringing one of the cables towards him with a finger and taking a closer look at the teeth. Jagged and zig-zagging, they looked like something out of a monster's mouth. Rubbing it against his finger left a scratch. Frowning, he put it back and examined the other cables.

One of them was the same as the one he'd put down; the other's connector showed a series of curves. These didn't leave a trace on his skin. A soft connector and a sharp connector. He knew he'd read about them somewhere. Soft and sharp, soft and sharp. One for a sensitive object, the other to maintain rigidity, stability.

 _Data transfer from a living object to a synthetic one. A mechanical, programmed brain. AI._

He had to tell Pidge. He tore out of the room, not caring if someone heard him. The whole base could hear him; he didn't care. He'd just made a breakthrough. Nobody could take that from him.

Pidge nearly fell over as he entered the room babbling about what he'd just discovered.

"Slow down."

"AI programmer. I found it."

" _What?"_ She pushed her glasses down hard against her face, almost like she was preparing for them to fly off the bridge of her nose at the revelation. "Then that means I can…let me show you what I found."

She turned the computer around to Hunk, motioning to a series of files on her screen. Each had a set of characteristics listed in the client she was working with; almost all were AI memory files with some sort of corruption in their history, typically visited by a handful of users with the same security clearances. However, there was one exception. Pidge displayed the properties for Hunk: one of the timestamps in its history was from two days before, approximately two vargas before Lance's final text.

"I haven't opened it yet. Are you ready?"

Hunk nodded. Pidge took a deep breath and clicked on the file.

* * *

The video opened to a small, dimly lit room lined with shelves. Various tools and cleaning supplies were strewn about them. A switch with several buttons was wired to a corner. The owner of the memory reached out and pressed the red one. Moments later, the door flew open, revealing a shorter, hooded figure with a glowing insignia across their chest.

Pidge, Hunk, and Lance recognized it as one of the Blade uniforms; Keith recognized it as himself.

The Keith in the video pulled down the fabric of his hood, revealing his face. Dark circles had formed under his eyelids and his skin seemed pale. Hand on his knife, he moved toward the subject, his eyes widened as he closed in on them.

"Reg-"

He had no time to process it. Suddenly, the field of view shrunk, elongated, and widened as the person lunged at the boy, smashing him into the wall. Keith gasped, pushing his attacker off him just long enough to free his knife from its sheath. Brandishing it with a growl, Keith charged, only to be thrown to the floor, his attacker's hands wrapped around his neck. He reached for his knife. Like a carrot on a stick, it lay just out of his grasp. Keith gasped and squirmed as the grip around his neck tightened, scratching at his attacker's arms as he tried to push them off. Tears sprung from his eyes as his lungs screamed for air. With the last of his strength, he reached for the knife one more time and closed his eyes, slashing it through the air in front of him before dropping his head to the floor.

A spiky, violet tail curled itself around the knife.

* * *

Keith hunched over, emptying out the contents of his stomach.

Pain scorched across Lance's neck. He'd seen this footage before.

* * *

The next video was set at the same frame of view as the previous. A projection of Kolivan appeared in front of the subject, who kneeled in his presence. Behind him was a panel - the same one Hunk had seen moments ago.

"It's done," they said. "You've been avenged, Kolivan."

"Avenged? Are you so sure about that, Regris?"

"Keith left you to die when there was ample opportunity to save you."

"And what about the mission?"

"You _are_ the mission, Kolivan. It doesn't exist without you."

Kolivan scowled.

"Do you think Keith would have intentionally left me there?"

Regris jumped up, taking a step back from the AI.

"It doesn't matter," he argued. "I saw it. Keith, he-"

"What you _saw_ was a mercy kill. Keith left me to die because I _was_ dying." Kolivan hung his head, looking away from Regris. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Perhaps I should have disclosed that to everyone. Maybe we could have avoided-"

Regris slammed the butt of Keith's knife into the panel, killing the projection of Kolivan. A scream tore through his throat. He brought the knife down again. And again, and again, until every button on the panel had been smashed to bits.

A line of blood shone on the blade.

* * *

Pidge and Hunk checked the download log: both files had been downloaded by Lance. Judging by his clearance level, he shouldn't have had access to them. Yet, somehow, that permission granted. Had it been a bug? An interruption? Had Lance been targeted, or had it simply been luck?

There was another odd file of the AI variety, created hundreds of years prior. The log consisted of multiple entries per day: corruption, recovery, and corruption again. Almost as if the program itself were at war, but with who? Regris?

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall. Pidge muttered something, packed up her things, and was promptly dragged from the room by Hunk, who dove into the room he'd discovered before. Keith and Lance stood watch outside, observing the conversation.

Narisse appeared ticks later, getting closer to the scanner, running his hand across the machine. He stopped at one of the drawers-the drawer they had used-and frowned, tugging it open. Inside still lay the threads they'd extracted from the crime scene. Hunk shivered; it was as if they were pointing directly at the closet, at them. Another pair of footsteps followed; this time, they were the head's.

"Regris," Narisse said. "Someone's been down here."

"I told you not to use that name." He cleared his throat as he joined Narisse. Grabbing the intern's chin, turned him to the side, revealing the seal at the base of his neck. "I'll have to take a closer look at your code than I thought. You shouldn't be slipping up like this. _I_ shouldn't be slipping up like this. Good thing we aren't starting the transfer anytime soon."

"I'm sorry," Narisse said.

"Not your fault, you're just a machine. Now show me what you found."

"The scanner, sir." He motioned to the thread inside. "Looks like it came from one of your shirts."

"There's some blood on it, too, as the results say. Synthetic. Most likely mine, as I doubt you've fought anyone recently. Did you get what I asked you for?"

Regris nodded and knelt down, taking his backpack off. He slipped a small silver slab from it and set on the floor, screen down. In the middle was a sticker with the letter "L" written in cursive. Hunk's blood ran cold. _Lance's phone._

"Good. We'll destroy this tonight, along with the other remains."

 _Remains_ , Pidge mouthed. _No._

"As for the evidence in the scanner, it looks like someone's been doing a little investigating. My top suspect would be his friends. They're very loyal to him," he remarked with a frown. "That's a good trait to have."

"What will we do with them?"

"We'll have to kill them, of course. I've already examined the lock history and banned the fake security data they used to get in. For now, though, you won't be of any use to me. I'll see you in a few hours."

He adjusted his belt pouch. An object ill-fitted to it sat inside, leaving an outline in the fabric.

Brushing his fingers against it, he slipped it out.

Narisse laid on the floor, unresponsive.

* * *

"He's not supposed to be alive."

Keith felt like he was on fire. His limbs ached, his body shook with anger. Was he going to collapse? He had no idea. Only one thing mattered - that android had called him Regris. _Regris had killed him. Regris was still alive._

"He's not supposed to be alive. He's not supposed to be here."

Keith crossed his arms over his chest. Lance closed in putting his arm around Keith for support, only to find himself pushed away.

"Regris died on a mission. He _died._ "

"You didn't find the body," Lance stated, his voice hollow. "You never knew for sure."

Keith shook his head.

"That doesn't matter. I'm going to kill him, I'll find a way."

As if on cue, Regris appeared, Keith's knife between his fingers. A permanent bloodstain had settled into the metal. The sight of it sent Keith's blood boiling, and he charged down the hallway, launching himself at his former best friend. Regris dodged without so much as a blink. Keith screamed and scratched at the man's skin, but made no marks, no impressions. Regris was unharmed.

Lance steeled himself beside the door as Regris approached. Hunk and Pidge were in there.

They were in there and he couldn't do anything to save them.

He slammed his head against the door and cried.

* * *

"We're about to die, aren't we?"

Pidge pulled out her laptop and shoved it into Hunk's arms.

"Not on my watch. Smash that asshole with this. You'll know when."

"Pidge-"

"Obvious dick joke, I know. Now I know why you and Lance were best friends."

Hunk managed a quiet, breathy laugh before the door opened with a hiss, filling the room with light. Regris stepped inside and sniffed the air as he looked around, his eyes eventually stopping on Pidge and Hunk. He dangled the knife in front of them for a moment, letting them take in its sharpness before tucking it away.

Pidge stood up and approached him slowly, her eyes narrowed. She angled her feet away from Hunk, drawing Regris' attention to the opposite wall. Once his back was turned completely, she tapped her foot against the floor hard. Heart pounding, Hunk leaped out and brought the laptop down over Regris' head, sending him plunging to the ground. Pidge hopped over him, pulling Hunk with her.

By the time they looked back, the door had shut behind them.

Lance collapsed to the floor, letting out a sigh of relief.

* * *

Keith kept his back pressed to the door as Regris smashed into it, begging to be let out. Some of his screams were so harsh, he began to cough. As much as he didn't want to admit it, Keith pitied him, pitied how Regris thought he was worth saving. Regris had no way out and even if Keith wanted to free him, the door had been locked. By what, Keith and Lance had no idea. Still, if trapping Regris in a room for the rest of eternity was the universe's way of getting justice, then so be it.

An alarm blared in the hallway. Frowning, Lance ran to the other room to check what was going on. When he came back, he hugged his body, refusing to look at Keith. Keith cocked his head.

"What's going on?"

"The room Regris is locked in. The oxygen's been dialed down to zero. He's asphyxiating, albeit slowly."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No, he deserves it. I just don't really want to listen, you know?"

Keith understood. To be honest, he was feeling the same way. It was one thing to quickly slaughter an enemy in battle; it was another entirely to watch them slowly wither away. A chill ran up Keith's spine as he thought of Regris suffocating on the other side, of the pain in his own neck.

"Let's go somewhere else, then."

"Where? We're kind of stuck until someone frees us." Stupid ghost rules. Lance wasn't sure he'd ever get used to them.

"We could move into the other room, at least," Keith suggested.

"Not far enough."

"Well, I don't know what to tell you. We have all of two areas to choose from."

"On second thought, the other room sounds better."

Keith laughed and took Lance's hand, walking with him to the larger room. Lance grimaced at the sight of Narisse, tapping him with his foot. Narisse's head fell to the side, showing off the port in the rear of his head.

"Gross," Lance said.

"You're telling me." Keith yawned and plopped down on the floor. "You know, I actually am kind of tired. When was the last time I sat down?"

"Probably a few hours ago," Lance said, sitting next to Keith. He rested his head on Lance's shoulder, closing his eyes. "Hey, watch where your suit touches me. You kind of puked on it before. Shock will do that, I guess."

"Mmm. Wake me up when we can leave."

* * *

"What happens from here?"

Lance leaned against the foundation, etching letters into it with his fingernails. They came out in weak, white streaks, barely legible against the gray stone. He knew it was useless, that nobody could see them, yet some part of him still hoped he was wrong.

"Don't know," Keith said. He sat in the grass next to Lance with his knees tucked to his chest, resting his head on top of them as he clutched his knife. His eyes were closed.

Lance knelt down and gave his shoulder a gentle shake.

"Hey, falling asleep at my vigil is kind of rude, don't you think?"

Keith groaned, mumbled something incoherent, and buried his face further into his knees. With a sigh Lance began rubbing small circles into his back and looked up at the crowd.

A week had passed since Regris's death. They broke the news to Lance's family the following day. The truth about Keith's death surfaced a couple of days later, broadcast to every media outlet of New Altea. Lance heard it leak in through ancient radio signals, saw it played on screens, even caught scrawlings of it on scrapped pieces of paper. He was positive that the conspiracy theorists were having a time of it as well—wondered what ludicrous ideas they had come up with since the news broke. Maybe they were debating whether or not Lance's death had even happened.

Every single one of Lance's family members had flown in for the vigil. His mother was a wreck-she couldn't walk one step without falling over and crying. Hunk kept his arm around her, keeping her upright as the group marched across the grounds. His siblings couldn't make it through their speeches and his grandmother was utterly silent the whole time. Pidge clutched her candle close to her body, tears streaking her face as she led Lance's little cousins behind the group.

Lance bit his lip as he watched them. He couldn't look for very long: it was too painful. Even still, he willed himself to keep turning back. To be there for them, even though they couldn't see him.

Keith got up and walked over to Lance, threading their hands together.

"I used to watch out for everyone, too. Until everyone I knew, well-"

"I think. I think that's what I need to do. I can't just leave them alone, Keith."

"That's okay. I can wait."

"Thanks," Lance said. He cupped one of Keith's cheeks with his hand. Keith leaned into the touch, closing his eyes and smiling as Lance pulled him in for a kiss.


End file.
